“Not much.” She shakes her head. “Just that she knew of her. They had a few classes together. Some of the same extracurriculars. That she was nice.” Gracie lets out a breath, a flicker of sadness brimming behind her eyes, almost as if she hates that there isn’t more she can tell me.
I huff.Yeah, me too.
“Said she wouldn’t call her a friend, though. Just a kind acquaintance.”
I frown. “Really?”
She nods.
“That picture of them looked a lot like they were more than acquaintances.”
My eyes flick to the pages I stole from my mother’s file, and I realize the photo is gone.He took it.
Before we left the library, I quickly printed it out. I’m not sure why, maybe some part of me just wanted to have a keepsake of a time when she seemed happy. Although Kane stole it, I can still remember it clearly. Our mothers, shoulder to shoulder, laughing and familiar. That’s not just some casual interaction. There’s history in the way their bodies relax together.
But I don’t say that out loud; instead, I say, “Did she mention anything about the club, about a student dying?”
“No,” she says regretfully.
Maybe that’s a good thing.If the student who attacked the other was my mother, surely Gracie mentioning her to her mom would have triggered something.Right?
“It’s weird because I’ve never heard any stories about a death on campus before. Both of my parents attended this school, and I can’t recall them talking about it,” Gracie continues.
“Yeah.” I release a breath, my shoulders rattling. “I never heard my mom mention it before either. But of course, I didn’t know she went here.” I grunt. “Why is everything so much of a fucking secret around here? And what does any of this have to do with my scholarship?”
Gracie takes the computer. “Let me see. You know my father’s a state senator, so I’ve learned a trick or two about digging up stuff over the years.” She types away, her focus narrowing in on whatever she finds. “Here. I did a search of deaths around the date of that article. Found this obituary.”
“It’s her,” I say, pointing to the line with school’s name in it. “Emily Croswell, twenty-one, was an honor student at SKU, daughter of prominent businessman Edward Croswell.”
“She was pretty,” Gracie mutters.
She was, and was so young, and just like that her life was over.
Gracie types on the keyboard again, and I watch closely as she cross-references and reverse searches Emily’s name and death date. And then she freezes, her eyes going wide.
I follow her gaze. It’s another article, buried on the tenth page of the search engine. My chest pulls tight before I even finish reading the words, my heart racing with every line I take in.
Emily Croswell, 21-year-old student, pushed during an altercation where she slipped, fell, and hit her head on a boulder. The student who pushed her was said to not know what they were doing, authorities report. The student blacked out, had some sort of mental break and has been admitted to Wyndmoor. The case has been labeled manslaughter, and due to the psychiatric and physical state of the suspect, the student will not spend time in prison, but will receive the help she needs at Wyndmoor.
“Physical state?” I question as if Gracie knows the answer.
“It says she was pregnant.”
My heart lurches. “Emily?”
She shakes her head. “The other student.”
“It wasn’t my mom,” I blurt, a weight immediately lifting off my shoulders with the realization.
“How do you know?”
“According to this, Emily died the winter of 2005. I wasn’t born until 2006, which means my mother wouldn’t have been pregnant with me at that time.”
Unless that’s something else she’s lied to me about. Could I have had another sibling?
“Okay. That’s good. Now we know it wasn’t her. But why hasn’t anyone talked about this? They just pretend it didn’t happen?”
Something feels off about all the secrets and hidden facts. Deep down, something tells me it’s all connected. Me being brought to this school, my mom, and theirs… Emily. It’s all a part of some web I can’t even begin to untangle.
